FOURTH DAY. 119 



" Oh drat thee now, vor a plaguy zow, 



A zurpriziiri zow bist thee ; 

 Thy snout it doos mwore harm in an hour 



Than I can mend in dree ! " 



In coomed th' owld 'oman a wringin' her hands, 



And thus in haste her spoke ; 

 " The vore hos lays on his back in the pond, 



And the plough and stilts be broke ; 

 And 'tis ' O Dobbin ! my poor Dobbin ! ' 



And What an owld vool was I ! 

 If I wears the breeches vor arr'n' agen, 



I wishes as I med die! '' 



Owld Grumbleton zwore by the zun and the moon, 



And ael the green laves on the tree, 

 If his wife 'ou'd but take to her gear agen 



Her shou'd never be caddled by he, 

 And 'tis " Oh zay no mwore, pray, 



Vor I hates to be called a vool ; 

 But bustle to-night, and put ael thengs right, 



And I ? 11 gie thee lave to rule ! " 



S. There, what do you think of that ? 



J. Excellent ! a commentary on the trite 

 proverb, " Cuique in sua arte credendum 

 est" I shall, as you advise, lay it to heart, 

 in the event of my falling into the snare of 

 Hymen some day. Your instructions in the 



